The Captain & The Train
by WhalesForSale
Summary: Post Winter Solider, the Avengers are called to reassemble in South Korea. Steve and Natasha must work fast to unravel a secret that has been hidden for over 50 years which links their past and threatens the stability of the future.
1. Chapter 1: Time

**_WARNING: This story will involve violence, language and past rape. Not all warnings or tags will apply to this story until later chapters. If you've read my other fics, then yep I do like trains and hotels ;-D They can be quite useful!_**

Please Read & Review, I like to see things from different angles. Crit of all kinds welcome.

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**The Captain & The Train  
**by WhalesForSale

**1400 HOURS**  
Gwangju, South Korea

Steve Rogers sat on a train speeding towards Gimhae, South Korea, final destination: Seoul. He had been spellbound for the last hour, watching the landscape zip past them. Tucked into in a little 4-seater alcove, he was the only occupant and preferred it that way. Not that he didn't enjoy company, but ever since the takedown of S.H.I.E.L.D. he'd had a bit too much "company" to suit him. Women threw themselves at him so often and shamelessly that it was a turnoff, men hushed in awe when he walked into a room, fanboys would nervously seek him out to sign plastic replicas of his shield, and not a few ex-HYDRA/S.H.I.E.L.D agents (or whatever they were calling themselves these days) had tried to kill him and Sam.

Steve was tired of it all.

In his pocket was a burner phone with the information to get to Stark Industries satellite office in Seoul where the entire team would assemble. _The Avengers_. If Steve was honest, he was excited for the change in pace. He and Sam had been tracking Bucky with the breadcrumbs that Natasha had given them over 7 months ago, and they both needed a break. Sam had gone back to take care of things at home and visit his family. He wasn't a member of the Avengers, but had agreed to be "on-call" should the need arise.

Steve was excited, though admittedly he didn't care much for trains.

**1800 HOURS**  
Gimhae, South Korea

Cold water trickled down Steve's face and he reached for a paper towel. He made sure to keep his head down away from the mirror. He was more relaxed than he'd been while tracking Bucky, but he would be a fool to assume that everyone who recognized him would be friendly. He wasn't sure that any of them had fully considered the implications that outing HYDRA/S.H.I.E.L.D would have. A lot of unassuming people had been publically declared as traitors, many had died in the battle, and those who were left had lost their jobs. That meant a lot of people were feeling anywhere from mildly annoyed to murderous towards him.

After drying his hands he settled his NY Yankees cap back on his head. It might scream _American_! but since he towered over 98% of the population anyway, he guessed it didn't make much of a difference. He wore a loose windbreaker over dark blue khakis and though he usually favored tan, he needed to be more low-key than usual. He checked his watch and then his fly before heading out of the men's room. _1807 hours where the hell is Natasha?_

Natasha was supposed to have gotten on the train 30 minutes ago when it stopped in Gimhae, meet up with him and continue to Daejeon where Stark kept an apartment. As instructed, they would spend the next day and night in Daejeon before taking another train to Seoul to meet the team. They'd both flown into separate airports to reduce the chance of an enemy discovering that the world's superheroes were gathering en masse. Of course that meant that he had to take a longer and more circuitous route to Seoul than he'd prefer, but when safety was involved, he'd do whatever it took. Everything had seemed so much easier when they had access to Quintjets.

Steve glanced again at his watch. He knew Natasha could take care of herself, but deep in his gut he was starting to get worried.

**1630 HOURS**  
Gimhae International Airport  
Gimhae, South Korea

Natasha knew she was being tracked as soon as she got through Customs. There were only two agents—she assumed NIS—which surprised the hell out of her. She was getting old for a spy, but not _that _old. She didn't know what their game was—security was tight as shit at that airport.

Natasha followed her own protocol when being followed and walked at a normal pace through the international baggage claim. She could see the woman with the short hair in her periphery weaving slowly through the crowds, taking care not to move with her in parallel tandem. Natasha readjusted her black bugout bag on her shoulder and casually looked to her right. There was a stocky, nondescript man dressed in street clothes slowly pacing back and forth in front of the exit doors, trying to look aloof. Even if his military grade combat boots hadn't screamed non-civilian,the way his eyes kept scanning the crowd in grids was a dead giveaway.

"Get it together Korea," Natasha chided underneath her breath, and smoothly pivoted towards the women's restroom.

If they were going to engage her—which she couldn't imagine they'd be stupid enough to do in the middle of an airport—then she'd need a weapon. Preferably _weapons_. The shitty fact about flying as a civilian is that walking through security with a weapon is very tricky and dangerous. One day Natasha wanted to pack a Glock 32 just to see what TSA would do, but in the meantime she needed to get low and do it fast.

The women's restroom had a long corridor of stalls, at least 15 deep on each side. There were women occupying several of the stalls and at least another five freshening themselves at the sinks. Natasha eyed them all quickly before ducking into one of the stalls furthest from the door. She worked with an unconscious speed that spoke of years of practice, and had her bag hanging unzipped in seconds.

She pulled out two titanium reinforcement ribs from the middle compartment and set to work. Just because it's _tricky_ to fly with a weapon, doesn't mean that it's impossible. The ribs were chemically treated with a fingerprint resistant finish and had identical shapes punched into them—a blade and a handle. She popped out two pieces and fitted them together, forming a push dagger. The weapons were made in the shape of a T. The handle fit snuggly in her balled fist, while the thin neck of the blade protruded up between her middle fingers. The base of the blade was smooth and formed to the curve of her knuckles. The blade itself was in the shape of a short, wide triangle, meant to be used with a punch. But Natasha's blade was altered. Instead of the being double edged and tapering to a sharp point, her edges were dull and came to an abrupt end, as if the tip had been snapped off. Though this design could be used to kill, its main purpose was to immobilize an opponent by narrowing the impact surface area. A deft punch to a single area such as the temple, for instance, could render an opponent unconscious with minimal effort.

Natasha was all about deft, minimal effort. She was in a foreign country in an international airport, and if she spilled blood or killed anybody, there was going to be a problem. She slipped a blade up each of her jacket sleeves and shouldered her bag. With a hand pressed to the stall door she listened cautiously before opening it.

A toilet flushed and a woman noisily blew her nose, but the rest of the women's voices were already fading as they left the restroom. Natasha opened the door and stepped out. Only three women were left in the restroom, including a cleaning lady—but no sign of her shadow.

Natasha rinsed her hands in the sink, surreptitiously watching the other women in the mirror. The two young women tossed their paper towels in the waste bin and bobbed their heads respectfully to the cleaning lady who returned the gesture. The cleaning lady, a woman several years older than Natasha, with hair pulled into a tight bun, continued to clean and keep a polite distance from Natasha's side of the restroom.

Surprised that the woman from baggage claim hadn't followed her in, Natasha began to make her way back out. The cleaning lady's supply cart was parked just inside the restroom door and as the two young women pushed the door open, she saw a floor sign outside written in Korean and English that read: _Restroom Closed for Cleaning_.

That was when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Before having a conscious thought, Natasha was already spinning to the right, both daggers dropping soundless into her palms. She didn't see the gun swinging into play, because she was still turning back towards the cleaning lady—even as her right arm moved in an upwards arc to drive the blade home into her collarbone.

The woman blocked the blade deftly the same instant that she pulled the trigger, and the gun went off with a soft _thwap_. Blinding pain ricocheted up the side of Natasha's neck and instantly numbed her left arm from the shoulder down. Fingers numbed, her second dagger clattered uselessly to the floor.

Natasha staggered back and quickly glanced down at her limp arm. Instead of finding a ragged bullet hole, she saw a black dart protruding from her shoulder. A dart only meant one thing: someone wanted her alive. Suddenly the woman was on her again. She leapt at Natasha with a spinning hook kick, aimed at her head.

Natasha dodged the kick clumsily and it landed on her shoulder instead, snapping the dart off at the base and driving the needle deep into her bone. The pain was excruciating and it was all she could do not to cry out. The woman backhanded her hard across the jaw and drove a hammer fist into her side. All of Natasha's air left her with a soft _whoosh_ and she doubled up, dropping to one knee. Something was wrong. She'd fought one-handed before and though it was ungainly and awkward, she shouldn't be this slow. Her mind was still predicting the woman's moves, but her body was not responding at normal speed.

_Got-dammit pull it together!_

Natasha realized with a sinking feeling that if she didn't find a way to end this fight quickly, then she would not be leave the restroom on her own will. Natasha blinked slowly as if trying to clear her vision. Her breathing began to slow as she sank down heavily onto both knees, swaying back and forth. The woman approached her cautiously.

"The fuck did you do, Korea?" she growled hoarsely. The woman smiled and came a little closer.

"Just a sedative. Don't look so worried, you're in good hands…for now." Her voice was soft and she spoke with a flawless American accent. But something was a little off. Each word was a little _too_ clipped, a little _too _precise, almost guttural. A shiver ran up her spine. It sounded almost..._Russian_.

"Who—" Natasha fell on her side with a grunt. Her eyelids were heavy and she struggled to sit up.

"Old friends," she answered indulgently. Still several feet back, the woman slowly began to drop her guard, but it was all the opening Natasha needed. Natasha came up on one knee and with all the strength she had to bear, drove her push dagger into the woman's kneecap. The patella crunched and shattered. The woman was already stepping back even before Natasha's blow was complete, before even the strangled shriek was past her lips. That was a mistake.

She was swinging her weight back onto her ruined knee, which couldn't support it. Instead of locking to hold her weight, it hyperextended. Natasha heard both ligaments go _pop-pop _in quick succession before the woman fell backwards, her face a contortion of agony—

—_What's wrong with the floor? _Natasha wondered. She felt something soft giving underneath her and looked down. Her eyes widened in shock—she was kneeling on the woman's throat. _When the fuck did that happen?_

She didn't at all remember crossing the distance between them and beginning the slow business of suffocating her. Kneeling on the throat with gradual, increasing pressure was a quiet and effective way to suffocate someone without crushing their windpipe. Natasha removed her knee and in that moment she nearly panicked. The goal was _not_ _to kill_. Had she done it? The woman drew a ragged, pitiful breath, and Natasha relaxed—marginally.

She left the woman sitting propped up on a toilet in a locked stall. It took more time and energy than she really had to spare to drag and lift her bodily with only one working arm, but she couldn't be left sprawled on the floor for someone to find. Before crawling out of the stall Natasha leaned in close and whispered, "Tell my _friends_ I said hey."

After double checking that she had all of her belongings, Natasha swung her bag back onto her shoulder and walked out of the restroom as steadily as could be managed—

—"Miss? Miss, I take?" the driver asked reaching for her black bag. The sun stood high in the clear sky. The air was unseasonably warm and thick with exhaust fumes. Taxis, shuttles, cars and buses honked and swarmed through the area. The sight and sounds hit her like a cattle prod and she flinched. Natasha gaped at him.

"Miss? I take?" he asked again, looking a little irritated. She was standing on the curb at international arrivals. She gaped at it all. _Oh my God. I'm losing time._


	2. Chapter 2: Waits

**Chapter 2: Waits  
**

**1835 HOURS**  
Dining Car  
Destination: Daejeon, South Korea

Jesus, God the meat pasty was _good_. Steve licked a bit of buttery crust off the back of his knuckle and considered buying a fourth. He sat at the bar inside the small dining car. It was crowded at this hour with patrons from all over the globe jostling for tables. If you're trying to be discreet, then crowds are your best friend. But if you're trying to be discreet _and_ are slightly paranoid about getting a quick knife to the kidney, then every stranger who brushes past you will induce a mild heart attack.

Steve was neither of those, but still kept scanning the crowd, looking for Natasha. He saw a flash of red hair and started. _That her?_ The woman turned around and caught him looking. A slow smile formed on her full lips—an invitation. Steve's heart thudded a little, but it wasn't Natasha. He smiled back and gave an apologetic shrug. She pouted prettily at him across the room before turning back to her table.

"Damnit!" he cursed under his breath.

"I'm sorry sir? You like more meat pasty?" the young woman behind the bar asked. She couldn't have been more than 20, with small delicate features and a nose that was almost a little too bold. Her name tag read: Mindy.

Steve knew that many folks working abroad or in tourism often took Western names to bypass awkward foreigners butchering their real one. Sam thought it was hilarious that they chose names that were considered old school, but Steve liked it. He found it comforting to come in contact with people who had names that were familiar to him like Frank, Helen or Ethel. Most people had ridiculous names these days. What chance did a man have in life if his father named him _Jaguar_?

"…Sir?"

_To hell with it._

"I'll take two more. One for here and one to go, ma'am."

The bartender bobbed her head politely. "Yes, as you like."

**1850 HOURS**  
Destination: Daejeon, South Korea

Nearly back to his seat, Steve frowned down at the grease stain the last pasty had left on his shirt. He rubbed the spot vigorously with the borrowed cloth napkin that he'd dipped in club soda.

"Well that's not gonna come out anytime soon."

Steve's head snapped up. "_Natasha_?" She was casually slouched in his seat, with her body facing the window. She wore tight black jeans tucked into knee high boots, and her hair was tucked under the hoodie she wore underneath her black leather jacket—which he was surprised to see was now blonde, not red.

"Hey there," she smiled up at him coquettishly. "Come sit." The way she held herself was slightly awkward, as if she were protecting her left arm.

Steve dropped the bag of food on the opposite seat and sat down next to her. His relief at seeing her was warring with his irritation at being kept waiting and worried. "Natasha, where were you?"

Natasha gave him her small, playful smile. "Exploring. Did you know these trains have emergency life rafts at every exit? I tried, but I haven't figured out why…"

"You were supposed to meet me here over an hour ago." He leaned in close and whispered fiercely, "Where were you? Did something happen or do you just like being irritating?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "You've had onions recently." She nodded towards the bag, her green eyes dancing. "What's in the bag, Cap?"

"What happened?"

"I'm starving. I haven't eaten since, well like all day."

Steve ground his teeth and snatched up the bag. He'd forgotten how maddening she could be. "Tell me what happened after you eat," he said with all the patience he could muster. "Alright?"

Again she gave him that little smile, which just knotted his guts in worry. He dropped the bag in her lap. She used her right hand to open it and peered in. "Mmmm, meat pasty. Nothing like ground unidentified meat baked until golden brown to make one's mouth water." She took a deep sniff, "Intoxicating."

"Look if you don't want it, you don't have to have it," he said feeling annoyed and made to take it back.

Natasha waved him off. "Calm down Rogers, I said I was starving. If ground kitten's what's for dinner, then gimme a plate."

"Wait, what?"

"Nevermind," she smirked. And then under her breath, "I just hope Simba was organic."

Steve watched her eat and began to narrow his eyes. "You know," she said around a mouthful of pasty which was actually quite delicious—but she'd never admit _that_ aloud, "you watching me eat every bite of food is creeping me out. Just a touch."

"What's wrong with your arm, Natasha?" he asked without preamble. "You haven't moved it at all since I got here."

Natasha finished chewing and nodded. "Yeah, I'm trying to work that out myself. It's beginning to wear off though, I'm starting to feel my fingers again."

Steve gaped at her, astonished. "What?" Without thinking, he grabbed her arm and pulled it towards him. Natasha hissed and shoved him back, cradling her elbow. "_Jesus_ Rogers!"

"Shit, is it broken?"

"No," she spat, breathing heavily through her nose, "but the needle broke off in my rotator cuff. If I move my shoulder it's like a shard of hellfire. Other than that, not so bad."

"Needle? Natasha who attacked—" he hastily looked around and lowered his voice, "—who attacked you?"

The half-eaten pasty lay on the floor between them. Natasha took a deep breath and relaxed as the pain passed. She smiled at him then, but it suddenly seemed very weary.

"Nat…" he pressed.

"I got jumped in a restroom at the airport. There were two NIS ops trailing me outside of Customs, but when I went into the restroom to arm up, they sent in someone who I didn't see coming from a mile away. I think the needle must've hit a nerve. The more I move my arm, the more I can feel my fingers, just hurts like hell when I do it. Also been making me extremely tired—that's why it took me so long to get here. I…I've been losing time."

Steve looked puzzled. "I don't understand."

"One minute I'm in the taxi and then all of a sudden I'm standing in the first-class railcar with no memory of boarding the train, let alone getting out of the taxi. It must be the sedative, because it's been happening since she shot me. I'm usually not very affected by them."

"But why would NIS attack you? Have you worked on this side of the fence before?"

"Yes, but always _with_ them." She looked into the distance and frowned. "That's something else I can't figure out. She said she was sent by my 'old friends.' And she…"

"What?"

"She was Korean, but she—Steve I could swear she sounded Russian."

"Hmm," Steve nodded, considering. "We'll have to puzzle that out later. In the meantime we've got to wait until we get to the apartment before I can take the needle out. You think you can hold up until then?"

"I'm alright, Cap." But Steve knew it was bravado.

"No, you're not alright. You should go to sleep. We've got a good two and a half hours before we hit our stop." In all truth Natasha looked exhausted. There were probably trace amounts of the sedative still leaking out through the broken needle.

"Aww but I'm enjoying us getting caught up!" she mocked.

His patience was running thin. "Natasha, go to sleep," he said sternly. She smiled at him then. A tired, melancholy thing, full of secrets and pain. All of a sudden he felt very guilty for being so hard with her. She was always either forward, brash, rude, cold, playful, or coy or a combination of all of the above. It was easier to handle her when he was in command and there was protocol to follow. But when it was just the two of them, like it was on the drive to Camp Lehigh, it put him off balance and he never quite knew how to react. So, he generally settled on being austere or defensive just to prove that her witty jabs weren't getting to him. But they did get to him, for reasons he wasn't fully ready to admit to.

"Here," he said picking up the pasty, "finish up Simba. It's still in the bag, so it's still good. Then if you want to take a nap, I'll keep watch. And yes, I watched _The Lion King_."

The corners of her mouth twitched as she took the pasty. "Full of surprises, this guy."

Steve snorted and they lapsed into an easy silence.

After the small meal, Natasha was asleep almost instantly. Steve was impressed with the willpower it must have taken for her to stay awake, make it to the rendezvous in one piece and then insist that she was fine. Maybe she was or maybe she just thought he wouldn't care that she was hurt._ Go easy on her, Cap_, he thought.

Not too long afterwards, the train shuddered over a section of track and Natasha's head slipped off the window. She jerked herself back upright, but wrenched her shoulder in consequence. She moaned in her sleep, a tiny furrow creasing her brow.

"C'mere," Steve coaxed. Taking care not to joggle her injured shoulder, he positioned her against his chest, so that she was facing the window.

"No, I'm okay," she mumbled drowsily.

"Shhh," he murmured, "I got you." She was out like a light with her head tucked securely under his chin. He always forgot how small she was until he was right up on her. He watched her reflection in the window for a moment before making good on his promise of vigilance.

**2015 HOURS**  
Daejeon, South Korea

_DING_  
_Ladies & gentlemen, we will be approaching Daejeon Station in approximately 15 minutes. If this is your final destination, please…_

Natasha, began to stretch and immediately regretted it. Pain, bright and hot shot down her arm and her stomach twisted queasily in response. She gasped and bit her bottom lip.

Someone shifted behind her and she tensed. "Nat, you okay?"

"Hey," he said comfortingly, "you're alright. We're on a train in Korea. Going to Seoul to meet with that asshole Sta—I mean, with Stark and the rest of the gang. Remember?"

Everything clicked into place and she let out the breath she'd be holding. He must have realized that she had been disoriented. "Steve?" she asked, her voice low and husky from sleep.

"Yeah?"

"Your shirt smells like onions."

Steve chuckled. "And you smell like roses and sunshine."

"Look at you learning how to lie," she teased and they laughed quietly.

"How's that arm?"

"Can't feel most of it, which is a good thing."

"Alright, I'll find a drugstore after I get you settled in the apartment and pick up some supplies." He started ticking off the things they needed. "Gauze, gloves, tweezers—"

"Needle-nose pliers would be better and a utility knife. It's deep, so you're gonna have to dig it out."

Steve clenched his jaw and nodded. He was no stranger to dealing with field wounds, but she knew that it's always harder to play doctor on someone you know.

"And pick up something strong. I have a feeling I'm gonna need a drink."


	3. Chapter 3: In Death

**Chapter 3: In Death**

**2230 HOURS**  
Unlisted Address  
Daejeon, South Korea

The flat was small, mostly unfurnished but scrupulously clean. Steve knew that Stark had started buying small properties around the globe that he kept off books as fallout shelters for loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and members of the Avengers. Since Fury never gave up the goods on S.H.I.E.L.D's old shelters, Steve grudgingly conceded that this was more than a prudent idea.

"Hey," Natasha called to him from the bedroom.

He walked in and dropped the bag of supplies on the bed next to her. "All there?" he asked. She sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed and peered at the contents. Gloves, iodine, gauze, rubbing alcohol, adhesive stitches, topical skin adhesive, saline, medical tape, binding strips, scissors, antibiotic ointment, arm sling, pliers and the utility knife. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the utility knife and he thought he saw her shiver.

"All there. How'd you get saline?"

"I know a guy," Steve replied, smiling mysteriously.

"Mmhm, _right_. And the drink?"

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a brown paper bag and set it next to her. "Johnnie Walker at your service."

"No Stoli?"

"I'm an American Nat, and I can't get drunk so I don't spend much time in liquor stores."

She nodded, eyes roving over the pile. "S'good in a pinch."

Steve grabbed the ice bucket from the kitchen and filled it with lukewarm water from the bathroom. When Natasha uttered a surprised cry of pain, he poked his head out and saw her struggling vainly to get out of her jacket.

"Might need a little help."

"Help?"

Natasha looked at him dubiously. "You're cutting me Steve, _not_ my jacket."

"Sure. Gimme a second." He finished gathering towels and washcloths from the bathroom and set them down next to the bed.

"Here, hold my sleeve."

He did as instructed and she gingerly maneuvered her arm out of the jacket. Underneath she wore a hoodie and under that a tight t-shirt. They repeated the same process with the hoodie and by the time that was removed, Natasha was breathing hard.

"Remind me," she groaned, "never to wear this many layers ever again."

Steve eyed her t-shirt and realized that at the rate they were going it was going to take all night. "You want me to cut it off ya or keep going?"

"Cut it."

He nodded and grabbed the scissors. Carefully, he slit the shirt up the seams and it pulled away easily. Underneath _that_ was a black tank top. The puncture wound was visible now just to the side of the shoulder strap, in the hollow where the clavicle met the shoulder. It was a small hole, but was raw and puckered, and slowly oozing serum from its peak. "I can work around your shirt," he offered.

Natasha shook her head. "Nah, blood'll just get all over it." Steve hooked a finger underneath the strap and lifted it up, but hesitated to cut.

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him when he paused. "Don't go bashful on me now Cap, 'cause the bras gotta go too." When he still hesitated she added, "Steve, it's not like you haven't seen me in my bra before."

He clipped the strap and frowned. "It's not like I was looking."

"That's okay, there's nothing wrong with looking," she informed him matter-of-factly. "I look at you."

"_Natasha_."

"What? Where's the harm? You think people don't look at you? Have _you_ looked at you?"

He clipped the other strap. "I know people look at me. I was just saying I didn't—I don't—I'm not gonna—_nevermind_," he ended in a rumble of frustration.

Natasha shrugged and immediately yelped in pain. "_Sukin syn_!" she growled ardently through clenched teeth.

Steve put a large hand on the back of her neck and squeezed lightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "I just need this thing out like yesterday."

He nodded and slit the tank top down the back. When she pulled it away from her body, Steve tried very hard not to look and also not to look like he was _trying_ not to look. Instead of coming off as gallantly nonchalant, he looked like he was having a mild stroke. Natasha was beautiful. Even banged and bruised, she was beautiful. Her swan's neck, the curve of her spine—he swallowed. A very small, knowing voice told him that this was part of the reason he was so firm with her. She unsettled him.

"Will you hand me a towel and then help me with the clasp?" she asked.

He snapped to attention. "Clasp?"

Natasha cocked her head to the side, frowning at him incredulously. "Steve you've been a movie star, a war hero, a comic book superhero and now you're a celebrity. _Everyone_ knows who you are. So I refuse, flat out refuse to believe that you've never taken off a woman's bra. _Refuse_."

"I have taken off—yes. Look, just where is it? Front or back?" What she said was true. He was no prince, but he liked to believe that he was still a gentlemen. He didn't believe that men should go around chasing after women every night of the week or groping every girl who walked by. And even if everyone knew who you were, it was still easy for such a man to get very lonely in this world. So on occasion, when the loneliness was too much for him to bear on his own, he gave in. He wasn't proud of that, but it also wasn't something he was ashamed of. It just was.

"In the back," she told him. "Just unclasp it and I'll take it off. Hand me a towel though?"

She turned her back to him and swept her hair out of the way. When he unhooked her bra, he liked to tell himself that his fingers hadn't trembled, but they had. Just a slight tremor before he had them back under control. He didn't know why they shook. This wasn't anything sexual and they were colleagues, besides. She just unsettled him.

"Towel for your thoughts?" Amusement colored her voice and Steve blushed faintly.

He snatched up a towel and thrust it in her lap. "Here," he said and then made a show of turning away; he didn't want her to think he was trying to get a look. Maybe he should leave the room…

"Where do you want me?" Natasha's voice was velvet on silk. A whisper of seduction that made all of his muscles go rigid and relax. When Steve turned around he inhaled sharply and then cleared his throat to cover it. His eyes traveled from her bra tossed casually on the bed, to the towel wrapped underneath her arms, to her bare shoulders and then to the hidden swell of her breasts, her skin moon pale against the cloth. Laughter twinkled in her emerald eyes and she wore that half-smile she favored when teasing him. Naturally, he frowned at her in disapproval. There were just some times you shouldn't toy with a man, and this was one of them.

"On the floor with your back to the bed," he replied curtly. Natasha raised an eyebrow, but complied without comment. As she maneuvered to the floor, Steve rechecked the supplies and organized them in order of need. He snapped on latex gloves and then quickly disinfected the pliers and utility knife with rubbing alcohol.

"I'm gonna sit behind you, so don't move," he instructed. "Now turn a bit to your right, left shoulder out." Steve carefully sat behind her on the bed and tightly crisscrossed his legs over her left arm and torso, pinning her against the side of the bed. Natasha hooked her good arm around his leg and hugged it. He swabbed around the puncture wound with rubbing alcohol and iodine to disinfect it. When he was done he picked up the knife and focused himself. "You ready?"

"No," she admitted, "But do it."

Steve nodded solemnly and turned his mind to the task. On the taxi ride to and from the drugstore, he'd used his phone to read as much as he could about the anatomy of the shoulder. As far as he could make out, the needle had punctured the supraspinatus muscle just over the rotator cuff and was lodged in the shoulder joint either in the synovial cavity or the articular cartilage. He fervently hoped it was the latter, or else there would be an extreme risk of infection.

The first cut was shallow; an incision half an inch long directly over the puncture. He felt Natasha tense against his legs, but she made no sound. A small well of blood beaded up from the cut and he quickly blotted it. The cuts were deliberately slow and shallow. Even though this method was causing Natasha more pain, Steve knew that it would be unwise to go too deep too fast when he didn't know how deep the needle was.

One cut at a time.

By the third cut he knew he was in the upper subcutaneous tissue because she stifled a shriek when he cut through a layer of nerve endings. She gripped his leg, digging her nails in and he had to wait until she stopped shaking before he could continue.

"Go," Natasha rasped.

Steve nodded even though she couldn't see him. The fourth cut severed the vessels in the lower subcutaneous tissue and blood gushed from the incision. With a face towel he swept up the overflow and then clamped it over the wound to staunch the bleeding. Natasha was breathing like a bellows.

On the fifth cut he felt the blade graze against metal and she whimpered at the contact. He blotted the wound and saw the jagged edge of the broken needle sticking out by the barest margin from her muscle. It would be so much easier to pull it out if he could access more of it. But then that would mean more cutting and possibly severing a tendon which he had neither the skill, nor the supplies to repair. "I see it. We're almost done, Nat. Almost there." She gave the barest nod and used the break to rest her head against his thigh.

By now, his gloved hands where slicked with blood, so he wiped them on a towel. In the middle of exchanging the utility knife for the needle-nose pliers, something caught his attention and he paused. There was a small writing pad set next to the phone. Grabbing that instead, Steve ripped off all of the paper, leaving only the cardboard backing. This he quickly folded over on itself and held it in front of Natasha's face.

"Bite down on this."

Natasha lifted her head blearily and asked, "Afraid I'll wake the neighbors?"

"No, I'm afraid you'll bite your tongue off, now take it." She opened her mouth obediently and took the proffered cardboard between her teeth. "Got it? Ok, hold on to me as tight as you want, you won't hurt me." In turn, Steve pulled his legs tighter around her.

The pliers hovered over the needle. One good pull: quick, up and straight. He sucked in a breath. _Steady. _She stiffened when the pliers came in contact with the needle. He closed them over the tip, clamping down tight to force the pliers to grip the needle completely so they wouldn't slip off during the pull. Natasha trembled and uttered a low, keening moan.

"Ready on three." They both tightened their grips on each other. "One." Natasha sucked in a deep lungful of air and held it. "Two." Steve rechecked his grip on the handle. "Three." Natasha screwed her eyes shut and Steve ripped out the needle.

Natasha screamed.

Steve felt it grind against bone as it came free with a small surge of blood and cloudy fluid. Natasha shuddered violently against his legs, alternating between rasping sobs and savage curses in Russian.

Immediately, he began using the saline to irrigate the wound and flush out as much of the sedative as possible. "All done Natasha, you did good. You're alright, it's all over," Steve assured her in a low, soothing tone. In the next moment she was slipping—her head drooped against his leg. "Nat, don't go to sleep. Keep your eyes open for me, hold on. Stay with me Nat. C'mon stay awake. Natasha, _Natasha!_"

Natasha didn't respond; the released sedative was already flooding her system. Suddenly, with no warning, her breathing slowed precipitously and then she was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

******Author's Warning: Please be advised that the latter portion of this chapter contains Mature Content.**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**0945 HOURS**  
Unlisted Address  
Daejeon, South Korea

A warm hand brushed her forehead. "Hey, you there?" he whispered and Natasha's eyes fluttered open. She looked in the direction of the voice and her eyes met Steve's. There was a tenderness in them that she rarely saw from him—or at least rarely directed at her.

"Hey," her voice was raspy, so she swallowed and cleared her throat. "How'd we do?"

"Well, you scared the shit out of me," Steve admitted with a smile. He sat on the bed next to her, his face close to hers.

"That was Karma. You were being grumpy." He was always grumpy and for some reason it made Natasha want to nettle him even more. It was like constantly poking a grizzly bear that you knew wasn't going to turn around and casually eviscerate you with a paw swipe. Fun with no consequences. Well… except that it made him grumpy—_er_.

"I wasn't being grumpy," he protested mildly, continuing to stroke her forehead with his thumb, "I was worried."

"Well, looks like you pulled us through, Cap. You've got a knack for it." She received another rare smile from him and felt like she'd been given a prize. _Where did that come from?_

"The needle was jammed in there pretty good. When I pulled it out, the sedative that was locked in the chamber was released. You went down almost immediately. Natasha… you damn near stopped breathing." Steve pulled back from her a bit, his face clouding over.

When he didn't continue she prompted, "What else?"

"I couldn't feel your heartbeat for over five minutes. But I knew it had to've been pumping 'cause your chest would rise, just barely. Anyone else would've thought you were dead."

That surprised her. The implications of that _frightened_ her. It reminded her of—"The sedative they gave to—"

"Fury," he confirmed.

"Tetrodotoxin-B."

"Yeah."

"Shit."

"Whoever was after you wanted to make sure nobody would think you'd survived."

Natasha looked away from him and felt a weight drop into the pit of her stomach. This wasn't some old grudge come to settle a score. Something was in play here that she didn't understand, and she _hated_ not understanding.

"Natasha?" Steve looked at her expectantly.

"Huh?"

"I said, how ya feelin'?"

"Oh, I'm okay I guess. Shoulder feels a bit stiff." She tried to move it experimentally, but found that she couldn't.

"It's in a sling," he explained sitting up, "and I bound the whole thing around you with bandage strips in case you moved in your sleep. Probably better to let it rest."

Natasha looked down and saw that Steve had put a robe on her as well. She almost smiled at the thought of him valiantly trying to conceal her dignity and not look at the same time. She was sure that her towel must have come off some way or another.

"Thanks for everything last night Steve. My shoulder—I was a bit…"

Steve gave a little shrug. "Don't worry about it." He paused and then looked at her levelly. "Listen Natasha, we're gonna get to the bottom of this, I promise. I'm right here with you and tomorrow we'll be in Seoul. No one is taking you anywhere you don't want to be. Alright?"

"Yeah." But it wasn't alright. This was the second time he'd saved her. She wasn't supposed to scream and she didn't cry. It… well it embarrassed her. She knew that Steve wasn't the type of guy who kept score, but it was kind of an odd feeling and she didn't fully trust it. Natasha had been on her own for so long that she was used to relying only on herself, out of necessity. She guessed Steve was similar, in a way. But it was rare that anyone helped her and it left her feeling uncomfortable and exposed.

"What's goin' on in there?" A mixture of curiosity and concern flickered across Steve's features.

Natasha looked up at him and felt a sudden, deep and unwavering shame. He was so kind and just _good_. How could anyone be so good? Maybe that should make her feel safe with him and trust him, except that it didn't exactly. She felt dirty somehow; like a red stain on pure white linen. She couldn't understand why Steve cared, maybe that's just what he did with everyone. Natasha felt different about herself when she was around him, like there was a greater possibility for good in her. But at the same time it brought all of her ugliness out into the stark light of reality. It wasn't that she didn't trust Steve, she didn't trust herself.

Natasha realized that she was staring at him and quickly turned away to mask her discomfort. "Nothing, I was… nothing."

"You know if you're still tired you can go back to sleep and I'll stay up and keep an eye on ya."

"No, it's okay, you should get some rest while you can." Natasha tried to sit up, but a surge of dizziness and fatigue swept over her in a wave.

Steve placed a gentle, but stilling hand on her forearm. "Natasha, it's alright. I've got you." There it was again, _I've got you_. But why? The surge came again. She was so tired. His voice was almost hypnotic, his calm eyes open and startlingly blue. _Cerulean_, she thought, _cerulean blue_. Steve's hand slid down to cover hers and his thumb moved across the back of it in slow, meandering circles. _Flecks of yellow_, was the last thought Natasha had before the remains of the sedative pulled her down, back into a black and dreamless sleep.

**1300 HOURS**

Steve opened a cabinet and whistled appreciatively. It was lined with canned soups, vegetables, meats, sauces, pastas, powdered eggs and potatoes, condensed milk, hardtack, meat jerkies and other foods a visitor might need if he couldn't risk going out. Another cabinet held bottled water, energy drinks and alcohol. Steve reached in and pulled out a bottle of 80 proof Stolichnaya.

"Stoli. Thank you for your service, Mr. Walker." He set it on the counter and opened a third cabinet. Steve's face screwed up in a mixture of horror and revulsion. Each shelf was completely stocked with _Stark-O's: Iron Crunch_. Almost twenty boxes of that self-serving smug bastard grinned out at him from the shelves. Stark _would_ have a sugar cereal. Steve shut the cabinet with a slam. "Prick."

"You really don't like him, do you?"

Steve spun around startled and then let out the breath he'd sucked in. He nodded at Natasha with renewed respect and wryly admitted, "There's not many people who can sneak up on me."

Natasha chuckled and leaned against the door frame. "Someone else said that to me once. He was a bit of a prick too."

"What're you doing up?"

"Same as you," she said and moved to sit at the kitchen bar. "I got hungry."

Steve rubbed his hands together and opened the first two cabinets. "Okay, we got a few choices. I'm thinkin' eggs," he pulled out a box of the dehydrated eggs and waved it at her, "and some… powered OJ, and fry up some Spam?"

Natasha wrinkled her nose at the can. "Gross Steve, we're not at war anymore."

He shrugged and put it back, "Yeah well, you eat somethin' as much as we did and you kinda get a taste for it. Sardines suit you?" At her incredulous look he sighed and put that away as well. "Then how 'bout some hash?"

"Isn't hash just Spam with potatoes mixed in?"

It was Steve's turn to look incredulous. "No. You've never had _hash_?"

"I don't make a habit of eating canned processed animal parts if I don't have to."

"Well you do now."

"Or we could just have a bowl of Iron Crunch. I hear it's full of 'clean energy.'"

Steve gave her a level look. "You're not eating that sh—crap. You need a good hot meal after last night." Natasha made a noncommittal sound, clearly not trusting his judgment on what constituted a good meal. He moved to the stove and made short work of the breakfast, but the whole time he could feel Natasha's eyes on the back of his neck—could feel her burning to say it.

"What?" he groaned.

"What?" she chirped innocently.

Steve glanced at her over his shoulder. "Spit it out."

She sighed. "Why do you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him."

"Well you don't like him, that's obvious."

"It's not that I don't like him, I just don't like how he behaves—most of the time."

Natasha scoffed. "Same thing."

"It's not."

"Sure it is. When you don't like someone it's because of how they behave."

"Well, I think I like you best when you're asleep," he retorted, but his tone was light.

"Thanks, that's both touching and creepy."

Steve took a moment to compose his words. "Stark's full of himself. When you're working in service of the people and you have men—and women—," he amended with a nod to her, "at your back, there's no room for that in the group. It causes dissension, confusion and resentment. Everything becomes a battle. There's moments in a fight when you don't have time to explain every command just because someone needs their ego stroked."

He looked at Natasha and she nodded her agreement.

"So," he went on, "Stark can do whatever he likes in his personal life, I don't care. But when it comes to other people putting their life in your hands, then you'd better leave everything but the commitment to protect that life at home. It's a precious thing, when people trust you like that, and I won't allow my ego or anyone else's to jeopardize it."

Their eyes locked. _Trust_. Steve knew that he trusted her. In all honesty he only trusted Natasha as much as she would allow him to. There was so much about her that he didn't know, but he did want to—if she would let him.

"Fair enough," she said simply, as if responding to his words both spoken and unspoken.

He dished a healthy portion of the breakfast onto a plate and placed it in front of Natasha. When Steve joined her at the bar, she still eyed her food with severe reservation. He handed her a fork. "Eat up."

Natasha took it and scooped up a forkful of the steaming hash, visibly steeled herself. "Aye, aye Cap."

**1700 HOURS**

In the mirror, Natasha surveyed her injuries. Her skin glistened with damp from the shower and she could see the bruises, livid against her pale flesh. The lingering heat fogged the glass and she wiped at it with a towel.

There were two, quick knocks on the door. "You okay?" Steve called. He'd gone to sleep shortly after their brunch, but had immediately woken up and stubbornly insisted on giving Natasha some privacy when she'd tipped into the room to take a shower.

"Yeah, almost done."

Natasha listened to his footsteps retreat from the bedroom before returning her cool gaze to the mirror. It was always her habit to do this after a battle. She would bathe and wash off all the blood, grime and sweat and then stand naked in front of a mirror to take inventory. It wasn't something that was born out of vanity, but from drilled-in training that she'd never felt the need to shake off.

Men and women may look at her as something dangerous and beautiful, a thing to be desired. But Natasha knew the truth of it; her body was just a weapon to be used, nothing more. It was a machine that constantly had to be tuned, recalibrated and have it's weaknesses reassessed. Other people might find this conviction degrading, but she'd had to make peace with it a long time ago.

The wound on her shoulder was red at the center and tinged with a light purple from the impact of the shot. Last night Steve had sealed it with liquid adhesive and covered it with a waterproof bandage. He'd done good work and it didn't pain her over much, but it was still very stiff if she raised it above her chest. The blow she'd taken across her jaw was only a light blue, but it was tender. Natasha reached up and touched it gingerly. There were light bruises on her knees from hitting the floor and a scraped knuckle from the push dagger.

The punch she'd taken to her side was by far the worst. Natasha raised her right arm and gazed at it dispassionately. It had been a swift, deep punch. Had it been higher, the woman probably would have broken her small rib, but that just showed how deliberate and well-trained the woman had been. The center of the bruise was so deep a purple that it was nearly black. The rest of the bruise spread out in fading hues of dark blue. She felt the muscles underneath pull with every movement. It hurt the most. Not good, but far from terrible.

Natasha held her own gaze in the mirror and the tiredness of her eyes shocked her a little. There were dark circles under them now, even though she'd slept for a very long time, and her skin looked pale. Her damp hair fell in light waves across her shoulders and she fingered them, considering. No point in being blonde if they'd recognize her anyway.

She looked into her eyes again and then quickly away. It was rare that she looked. She often didn't like what she found in them; they were old eyes that had seen _too_ _much_. Did other people see the same darkness that she glimpsed? Was this what Steve saw when he looked at her? Her eyes could never be open like his. Natasha swallowed and turned away from the mirror.

**... ... ... ...**

"All yours if you want it," Natasha called. Steve was slouched on the couch with an arm across his face. He lifted the arm a hair and glanced at her.

"Nah, I'm okay," he said before dropping his arm back in place. She sat down next to him and they passed some time in amicable silence, soaking up the late afternoon sun which flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Sam and I were searching in the wrong place," Steve ventured, breaking the silence. "I'm almost sure of it."

Natasha shook herself out of her musings and turned towards him, her brow creased in confusion. "You didn't find _anything_?"

Steve shook his head. "No. I keep feeling like Bucky's behind us, not in front of us. Like he was back where we started."

"In D.C.?"

Steve nodded. "At least he was when we left. After that, who knows where he went."

"You don't think he went back to his handlers? He's still brainwashed and I hate to admit it, but brainwashing tends to make you gravitate back to your comfort zone."

"I know," he sighed, "It's crossed my mind—more than once. But Bucky was different Natasha, I can't explain it. He could have killed me."

"He _did_ try to kill you."

"No, he fought it. I saw the doubt in him and I watched him fight it! Bucky's still in there and I'm gonna find him."

Natasha looked at him, considering. "I dunno know Steve, but I hope that when you do find him that you can help him. It won't be easy… for either of you." She ended this softly looking down at her hands. Steve assumed that she was speaking from her own experience and by the look on her face, it still haunted her. Natasha never shared anything about herself—in fact this was the most she'd really alluded to anything concerning her past.

He wondered if the woman he knew now was anything like the girl she'd been. While Natasha had only been a girl when she was taken, Bucky had been a man full grown. He would never be the same again, there was no doubt, but he'd had a life, memories and a set personality. How much of this still existed in his core that he could draw upon? How much of Bucky could he bring back? Would he even want to come back?

Natasha said that it wasn't easy and Steve wanted to ask her how it had been done with her. How she'd chosen the person that she wanted to be. But he felt like that would be a violent intrusion on a privacy that she guarded jealously. Steve sighed.

"But you'll do it," Natasha added, "I know you will." There was no hint of doubt in Natasha's voice and her eyes were full of certainty and knowing. Until this moment, Steve hadn't realized how much he'd needed someone to say they believed in him or acknowledge the battle he'd committed himself to fighting. Warmth and gratitude swelled in his chest.

"Thank you for that Natasha. That means a lot to me." Natasha gave Steve a small smile and turned her face toward the sun.

**2100 HOURS **

Natasha shut off the television and uncurled herself from her corner of the couch. Trying to translate rapid-fire Korean for hours on end was giving her a headache. Steve had given up paying attention a long time ago. "You want somethin' to eat?"

"How 'bout some fried Spam?"

"I'm not making you pig parts." Natasha nudged Steve's leg with her knee and a crooked smile crept across his face.

"I'm more tired than hungry anyway. Jetlag," he yawned widely, "jetlag's killin' me."

Natasha nodded as she was still feeling more than a little tired herself. Showering and dressing had taken most of the energy she'd had. It surprised her to no end that Fury had taken a full dose of TTX-B and managed to be up and helping them save the world less than three days later. _Like Zombie Jesus_, she mused. She found that Steve's yawning was contagious and when she followed suit, his head snapped up sharply. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself."

"You should go to bed, Nat."

She yawned again, though she tried to stifle it this time. "Practice what you preach, Cap. Let's go."

"I'm fine out here, just grab myself a pillow."

Natasha looked puzzled. "Why? The bed's huge, we can both use it."

Steve stood up, shaking his head stubbornly. "No, I'll be fine out here, the couch is plenty big enough."

"Don't be stupid, you should sleep in the bed."

"I'm fine on the couch," Steve insisted and then walked into the bedroom. Natasha followed him, feeling a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"We're both adults Steve, so what's the problem here?"

"There isn't one."

"Fine, then I'll take the couch."

"Natasha," he warned.

"What?" she said and snatched a pillow off the bed. "If it's good enough for Steve Rogers, then it's good enough for me."

"Why're you picking a fight?" he demanded in tiredly.

"I'm not picking a fight. You're the one who stayed up all night and barely got any sleep today. We're about to be on a mission and it would be stupid to go in tired when you don't have to."

"Nat, I don't wanna argue with you about this."

"Then don't."

Natasha knew she was glaring at him—which probably wasn't helping. _Please just take the bed, Steve._ She wanted to beg him to do it and tell him it was because of how guilty she felt that he'd stayed up all night just to make sure she was still breathing. Guilty that he'd saved her _again_. Irritated as hell that he was always being so fucking gallant. Maybe if Steve would just let her give him something in return then she wouldn't feel like such shit… maybe. But she couldn't say that of course. Natasha-fucking-Romanoff didn't say things like that.

Steve looked at her for a long moment, taking in her angry frown and the pillow she held in a death grip—he probably thought she was loony tunes. Natasha fully expected to battle with him until one of them caved. And considering how mule-like Steve was, she expected it to be her. Instead, he surprised her. "Alright, but wake me up if I start snoring. Sam says if I don't go to a sleep doctor soon, then he's gonna quietly smother me in my sleep."

Natasha chuckled and relaxed her grip on the pillow. Then she cocked her head to the side and regarded him with an inviting smile. "Well don't worry about getting smothered, Steve. I always give the geezers I sleep with a free pass." Steve caught the pillow she casually tossed his way and scowled.

**... ... ... ...**

They'd spoken polite goodnight's to each other and had gone to sleep on their respective sides of the bed, leaving enough of a gulf in the middle that it was wide enough for a third person. But at some point during the night they had come together. Natasha was pressed with her back against Steve's chest and his arm lay draped over her waist. When she stirred against him he awoke and saw that it was twilight. Her warmth and soft feminine scent had relaxed him into a deep slumber that he rarely allowed himself. She murmured something in her sleep and Steve thought she must still be drowsing, until he felt her hand brush his and move up his forearm.

"Natasha?"

Natasha turned her body into his a little more and looked at him over her shoulder. When Steve saw her face, he inhaled sharply. Her eyes were wide pools of deep sea green, ringed with the soft light filtering in through the window. They were so… _open_. Open and unguarded in a way that she'd never allowed him to see before. All of her walls and safeguards were down and he could see the loneliness that she kept only to herself. Now that he really looked at _her_, Steve could see how alike she was to him. And then beneath that, he could see the desire.

Slowly, Natasha drew his hand under the bottom of her shirt and pressed it firmly against her belly. "Kiss me." It was spoken softly, a command and yet a question. He couldn't deny her, suddenly he didn't want to deny her anything.

Steve leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers. Natasha reached behind them with her other hand and pulled his head down, deepening the kiss. When her mouth opened, he sucked in her lower lip, running his tongue along it and delighting in its plumpness. When her tongue met his in a hungry dance it was like an electric current shot from the tip of his head straight down to his groin. She tasted faintly of jasmine blooming under the spring sun.

He groaned against Natasha's mouth and the hand that held his against her belly increased slightly in its pressure. Steve inched his hand down, past the soft, taught skin on her stomach and paused at the hem of her pajama pants. Their breathing quickened and when she moaned, Steve had the sudden impulse to pull away and bite her hard on the neck to mark her. He barely resisted the urge, but the thought made his erection throb.

Natasha tangled her fingers in the back of his hair and with her other hand, gently guided his hand beneath her pants and underwear. He needed no further urging. His fingers moved in a trail through her soft pubic hair. There was only a small stripe down the middle, which was cut short, but not low enough to be bristly. When his two fingers parted her folds, Natasha jerked against his touch. She was hot and wet. Steve slipped his middle finger down to the tip of her entrance and used the wetness of her arousal to lubricate the head of her clitoris. It throbbed steadily against his finger when he began to rub it. First in small circles and then straight up and down, but always focusing on the small pearl of flesh. The feel of her tongue in his mouth, the damp heat between her legs and her husky moans made him growl deep in his throat. Steve arched his hips against her the same instant that she pushed back and rubbed her round bottom against his crotch. By now he was so aroused that the contact was delightfully painful.

He rubbed her engorged clitoris in just the perfect spot and she gripped his wrist hard. Natasha pulled her mouth away from his, gasping before nipping him along the jaw. "_Steve_," she said, drawing his name out in a breathy whine. He knew she was close and he knew what she wanted. He thrust his hips against her again.

"Nuh," he groaned dully. In mid-thrust, Steve awoke abruptly and froze. It was the small hours of the morning and Natasha was pressed with her back against him, _asleep_. His hand was flat against her belly where he'd rucked up her shirt during the night. His erection was pressed between them and he pulled back from her, startled and disoriented.

Natasha didn't move and he prayed to God that she hadn't felt his half-thrust _or_ the erection. Either she had and was trying to spare his dignity, or the last vestiges of the sedative were still passing through her system. Either way, Steve hastily exited the bed as quietly as he could manage.

For a moment, he stood at the end of the bed breathing hard, his heart beating out a staccato tattoo. He watched Natasha's dark form and tried to recall himself as he shook off the dream. Steve's penis twitched at the shared memory—_no,_ _dream_—and before he realized what he was doing, he'd lifted his fingers to his nose to smell her musk. But there was none, _of course_. He flung them away, suddenly filled with shame and self-revulsion, and fled the room.

In the dark living room Steve sat upright in the recliner, his mind a confused jumble of emotions and thoughts that ran in wild circles. His immediate impulse was to masturbate and give himself the release that his body demanded. He couldn't shake the images of her, or her feel, or her taste from his mind. But when he cupped his tightened balls through his sweatpants, Steve found that he couldn't. As startling as the magnitude of his desire was, it would be wrong. Natasha hadn't asked for his attentions and she was his friend. She'd invited him to share the bed and now, just because he'd nearly had a wet dream, he would use and violate her image? No, what he'd already done was bad enough.

Steve viciously gripped each armrest and ground his teeth together in frustration. Unbidden, his mind went back to the beginning of the dream—_Natasha's_ _eyes_. There had been no secrets, no barrier between them—only understanding and acceptance. Tonight something in Steve had shifted and he knew clearly what it was, though he wished he didn't. For that brief moment, when their eyes met in the dream and he _saw her_, he'd no longer been alone. Not since before the ice had he felt the joy and comfort of having a true connection with someone who was like him—out of time and out of place.

Until tonight, Steve hadn't allowed himself a just examination of the depth of his loneliness. But now, it was laid bare before him in all of it's pitiful, aching raggedness. And if for that true connection alone, Steve keenly wished that it had been real.

But it hadn't been real. It was just a dream.


End file.
